Two days later, in the dusk of a mid-winter afternoon, they were all
arriving at Baronscourt. The ground was white with snow.
'What a storm there must have been here,' said the children's father.
'The snow is quite deep, much deeper than with us.' For their home was
at some hours' distance, and farther south.
'Do you fink anybody will be lost in the snow, Nettie?' whispered Denis
to his sister.
They two were seated opposite their father and mother in their
grandmother's brougham, which had been sent to the station to meet them,
with a large covered wagonette for the rest of the party.
Nettie smiled at Denis.
'Not here, Den,' she said. 'It's very seldom people are lost in the snow
in England. It's in far-away hilly countries like Switzerland.'
'Was it there that mother was reading about?' asked Denis, only half
satisfied.
'Yes,' said Nettie. 'It's there that they have the great big dogs that
are so good, going looking for the poor people in the snow.'
'I shouldn't like to live in that country, though I _would_ love the
dogs,' said Denis. And then jumping up in his seat with a scream of
delight, 'O Nettie, O Nettie,' he cried, 'look, look! There's dear
little Prin coming to meet us all in the snow; dear little Prin; oh,
I hope he won't get covered up. Mayn't we stop to take him in?'
'We're quite close to the house, dear,' said his mother, smiling at his
pleasure. 'Prin will be all right. Granny will not let him go far alone,
you may be sure.'
And as she said so, Prince, whose little smooth, jet-black body looked
very funny in the snow, turned round after two or three sharp barks of
welcome, and made for the house again.
'He's gone to tell them we're come,' said Denis; 'isn't he a _sensible_
dog, Nettie? I don't think I love _anybody_ better than Prin,' he said,
ecstatically.
They were at the front door by this time, and there, a little way back
in the shelter of the hall, for it was very cold, and she was no longer
a young lady, stood dear Granny waiting to welcome them.
Granny, I must tell you, was not the children's grandmother, but
the great-aunt of their mother. She seemed, therefore, a kind of
great-grandmother to Denis and his brothers and sisters, and to have
called her 'Aunt,' or anything else but 'Granny,' would have been
impossible. She was old; very old, I daresay she seemed to the children,
but yet there was a delightful sort of youngness about her, which made
them feel as if they could tell her anything, with a certainty of being
understood. And of all the children she loved and who loved her, I don't
think any felt this beautiful sort of sympathy more than quiet little
Denis. It was a long time--in child life a very long time--since he had
seen her, six months ago, a tenth part of the whole time which Denis
had spent in this world--but when he saw dear Granny standing there in
the doorway, her sweet gentle old face all over smiles of pleasure, it
seemed to him that he had never been away from her at all.
'Dear Granny,' he said softly, when his turn came to be kissed, 'dear
Granny, I do 'amember you so well--you and Prin;' and he was not at
all offended when the others laughed at his funny little speech--a long
speech for Den; he thought they were only laughing because they all felt
so pleased to be back with Granny and Prin again.
'My dear little boy,' Granny said, as she kissed him, 'this is very
sweet of you. And you may be sure Granny and Prin haven't forgotten
you.'
And Denis, looking up, thought that Granny was the prettiest lady in the
world, 'next to mother.' She _was_ very pretty, at least in the sight of
those who do not think beauty is only to be found in the bright eyes and
fresh roses of youth. And, indeed, Granny's eyes were bright still, and
when she was very pleased, or sometimes when she was very vexed--for
Granny could be vexed when it was right she should be--her cheeks, soft
and withered as they were, would grow rosy as when she was a girl. They
were rosy just now, with pleasure, of course, and perhaps with a little
tiredness; for there were a great many people staying in the house, and
large as Granny's heart was, it was rather tiring to so old a lady to
attend to so many guests.
'I am so glad you have come, my dear,' she whispered to Denis's mother.
'You will help me better than anyone. It was right I think to fill the
old house again this Christmas, but my heart fails me sometimes when
I think of those who are no longer among us. And yet they _are_ among
us--just at these times, my dear, all the old faces seem to be smiling
back at me, the last of the generation. The house seems filled with
their presence to me as much as with the living friends who are about me.'
The children's mother pressed Granny's arm.
'Dear Granny,' she said, 'don't talk like that. We couldn't do without
you yet awhile. You are tired, dear Granny. Now it will be all right.
I shall do all, and you must rest.'
Denis had been standing close beside them. He heard what Granny said
without understanding thoroughly what she meant, and a very grave,
awe-struck look came over his face.
'Does Granny mean that they come out really?' he said to himself with a
little shiver. 'Granny doesn't seem frightened,' he added. 'I mustn't be
frightened, but I'm so glad I'm to sleep in nurse's room.'
Poor little man. There was disappointment in store for him. His mother
would not let Granny go up-stairs to show them their rooms as she wished
to do.
'No, no, Granny,' she said, 'I know them all quite well. Take Granny
back to the library, Edith,' she added to one of the young ladies
staying in the house. 'I'll come down in five minutes when I have
settled the children in the nursery.'
Granny's maid met them at the top of the first stair, and went with them
to their rooms.
'Yes,' said the children's mother, 'that will all do beautifully. Linda
and Nettie in the room beside me, nurse and baby in the old nursery, the
boys in one of the turret rooms, and Denis--let me see--isn't there to
be a little bed for him in the nursery?'
They were on their way from the nursery to the boys' room when she said
this; Denis beside his mother still, holding her hand.
'No, ma'am,' said Tanner, the maid, 'my lady thought Master Denis would
be better in the little room beside his brothers'. It's a very little
room, but big enough, I daresay, for such a little gentleman. It would
not have been easy to put another bed in the nursery, without filling it
up so. And my lady thought Master Denis would be proud to have a room of
his own.'
'Yes, indeed,' said his mother; 'how kind of her.'
They were passing along the picture gallery. All of them together,
except nurse and baby, who had stayed behind by the nursery fire. Linda,
Alex, Lambert, and Nettie in front; mother and Denis and Tanner behind.
Denis tightened his hold of his mother's hand, but said nothing.
'I wish _we_ had one of the turret rooms,' said Linda; 'this gallery is
_so_ lovely to run along every time one goes to one's room. I like this
gallery the best of anything in the house.'
'And best of all in the moonlight,' said Alex. 'Don't you remember,
Linda? For my part I prefer it in the day-time, or well lit up, like
just now.'
'What a goose you are!' said Linda. 'Do you mean to say you'd be
_afraid_ to come here in the moonlight?'
'Hush, children, don't talk so foolishly,' said their mother, for she
never liked that silly kind of talk, especially before the little ones.
'I quite agree with you, Linda, about this gallery being charming.'
They all stood for a moment--they were close to the end door by now,
the door that opened into the anteroom, from whence opened the turret
rooms--and looked back. It was worth looking at. Lighted by the
old-fashioned lamps that hung at intervals from the dark oak ceiling,
which reflected their rays like a black mirror, the old gallery, with
its coloured glass windows at one side, the small, leadened panes
looking quaint and mysterious, though their tints could not, of course,
be seen, and the rows and rows of silent portraits looking down upon you
from the other side, seemed like a dream of a long-ago world, the merry
voices and bright glances of the children striking one as almost out of
place, and the grave faces appearing to gaze at them in disapproval.
'It was not meant for a picture gallery long ago,' said their mother:
'if it had been, these windows would not have been placed so, and they
certainly would not have had coloured glass. These portraits used to
be in the large saloon and the drawing-room, but they made them look so
gloomy that Granny's father hung them up here,' and so saying she opened
the door and crossed the passage to the boys' room, followed by all the
five.
'How jolly!' said Alex and Lambert in a breath, and with good reason,
for their room looked the picture of comfort, with its deep window-seats
and wainscoted walls, and the radiance of the brightly-burning fire over
all.
'The boys don't have fires in their bedroom at home,' observed Linda.
'And they need not have one here every day,' said their mother. 'It's
just for a welcome at the beginning.'
'And because it really is so cold. I hardly think my lady would be
pleased if they hadn't one,' said Tanner with a smile, which made Alex
and Lambert think she was very kind indeed.
Then they all turned to look at Denis's little room. It was very snug
and cosy, though very tiny. It did not open into his brothers', but was
just across the little anteroom.
'You will be very happy in here, won't you, Den?' said his mother
brightly; and not noticing that the little fellow did not reply, she
hurried away, for she was anxious to go down to the library and help
Granny with afternoon tea for her guests.